Something unusual is revealed here as well: the house of God is the true house of humans. It becomes the house of humans even more the less it tries to be this and the more it is simply put up for him. — Pope Benedict XVI1
Piranesi’s panoramic views of the Forum and its ruinous remains feature six roofed and working buildings which all turn out to be churches: S. Adriano, built into the Senate House, S. Lorenzo in Miranda, built into the Temple of Antoninus and Faustina, SS. Cosmas and Damian, S. Francesca Romana, SS. Luca e Martina, and the now demolished S. Maria Liberatrice. The Forum had become a Christian sacred space. Indeed, it has been a place of worship for about two thousand eight hundred years, and for over half that time the worship has been Christian. The churches were all entered from, and looked on to, the Forum. But the growth of archaeology and the transformation of the space into a designated archaeological site means that those of them that survive now tend to be entered from outside the Forum, in other words from their rear. They have in effect been written out of the Forum’s history.
The devout usage of chapels occupies a venerable place in Christian practice. Whether in a university dormitory or amidst a sprawling Gothic chevet, favorite chapels inform the pious memories of many of the faithful. The notion of an intimately arranged chapel summons a certain fascination and esteem, conjuring idyllic thoughts of the zealous knight praying until dawn before battle, or of the instrument of conversion in Waugh’s Brideshead Revisited.
In this second section on the location of the tabernacle, liturgical norms of various levels of authority will be cited from liturgical books, canon law, papal documents and instructions from dicasteries of the Roman curia. In each case, the document will be cited with its date of publication and a brief commentary given.
Benedict XVI loves the liturgy, seeing it as our being caught up in the divine mystery of salvation and all during his pontificate he promoted it by his writing, preaching and teaching. His spirituality seems to have not only an Augustinian cast, but also seems to show the influence of the early German liturgical movement, which was much promoted by the Benedictines for whom he has a great love. In this article, we will examine his liturgical evolution from his youth in Germany to his work as the occupant of the Chair of Peter, for which we all are grateful.
For the purpose of trying to discern major shifts in the theory and practice of the reservation of the Blessed Sacrament, the history of the tabernacle can be divided into four sections: the patristic period until Carolingian times, the Carolingian period until the Council of Trent, the Council of Trent to Vatican II, and Vatican II to the present.
There’s a scene that unfolds at weekend liturgies in the place where I worship with stunning predictability. At a point somewhere in the midst of the Communion Rite worshipers begin migrating toward the exit doors, lured, one assumes, by the promise of more exciting Sabbath hours spent elsewhere.
An American physician and native New York Catholic by the name of James Joseph Walsh once published a wonderful little book entitled Thirteenth, Greatest of Centuries, in which he extolled the virtues of that bygone era. There were indeed many such virtues, but as the great French philosopher and medievalist Étienne Gilson is reported to have once said about the Middle Ages: “I love studying them, but I’m glad I didn’t have to live in them.”
“People will again go up to the religious community building, whose architectural prominence will command respect, and which can only be approached along a triumphal axis. Its great internal space will inspire us again, not because of a sacredly mystic devotion that makes us long for a transcendental world, but because of a devotion characterized by a reborn Dionysian joy.” – Hendrik Petrus Berlage
At a recent occasion, Pope Benedict XVI has called artists “custodians of beauty,” as his predecessors Paul VI and Blessed John Paul II had done before him. This title is significant, not least because in the Catholic tradition beauty is understood as a philosophical and ultimately theological category.
In the last century we have seen a steady devolution of Catholic sacred architecture from grand and formal edifices to decidedly more residential scale and casual buildings. This was not accidental, but rather a deliberate effort to return to what mid-century liturgical scholars considered was the true character of Christian worship as understood in the early Church.
Few places in the world resemble Montserrat in the Catalan region of Spain. There nature, culture, and faith are united as one. Spectacular saw-shaped mountains rise like a geological cathedral about 3,500 feet above sea level to embrace the Benedictine Abbey at Montserrat.
In 2001, the newly-founded Liturgical Institute at the University of Saint Mary of the Lake in Mundelein, Illinois, hosted a conference entitled “Building the Church for 2010: Continuity and Renewal in Catholic Liturgical Architecture.”1 Invited speakers addressed the topics of renewal and tradition in church design, and the firm of Franck, Lohsen, McCrery presented the “Church for 2010,” a hypothetical church design using New Classical architecture.
You are beauty…You are beauty! exclaimed St. Francis of Assisi of God.1 God who is beauty is also Being, the source and sustainer of all that is (cf. Col 1:16-17).
From at least the time of the Council of Trent, the usual venue for the celebration of the Sacrament of Penance has been the confessional situated in a church or oratory.
The 2011 Venice Biennale was flooded with non-representational works that were, as The New York Times reviewer put it, engaged in “an unforgiving contest between the memorable and the forgettable.”
Churches once were recognized as pillars of the community, a distinction manifested in the pride of place granted to the church buildings: from simple white churches on village greens to grand cathedrals on city plazas, the church was integral to civic life.
The Dominican Complex at Magnanapoli, Rome, is an architectural composite from the mid sixteenth century in the heart of the ancient city currently housing the Pontifical University of St. Thomas Aquinas, Angelicum, along with the adjacent monastery, convent and adjoining gardens, and the church of Saints Dominic and Sixtus.
That churches are still being built in Italy, a nation where regular mass-goers make up less than 30 percent of the population and that possesses a birthrate that would make your Sicilian grandmother weep, is news not unlike Dr. Johnson’s comment about a dog walking on its hind legs: one is surprised it is being done at all, never mind questions about quality.
When the early Christians were finally able to build their churches in public, they chose the high-style architectural classicism of the Roman Empire. Almost every Christian culture, from the Constantinian era forward to the mid-twentieth century, has used some version of classicism to build its churches. After many decades in the shadows, classicism is appearing once again in civic and ecclesiastical architecture.
Although beauty has held the interest of philosophers ever since Plato acceded to it a place of privilege among the Forms, the field of “aesthetics”, at least in the sense used by professional philosophers today, is a rather late development.
In his “keynote” delivered last Monday [January 17] to the Faculty of Architecture of the University La Sapienza of Rome by Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, the president of the Pontifical Council for Culture issued a warning, among other things, regarding contemporary church architecture.
A few days after the consecration of the Basilica and Expiatory Church of the Holy Family in Barcelona by His Holiness Benedict XVI, the famous Gaudí building was awarded with the Barcelona Prize for Architecture and Planning as the best project built in the city in 2010.
Longford Cathedral, one of the finest Neoclassical buildings in Ireland, was reduced to ashes on Christmas morning 2009 by a fire, originating in an over-extension of the heating system.
While new construction is a significant aspect of the present revival of ecclesiastical architecture and design, the enrichment of existing churches is equally important.
Shown is one of my favorite architectural drawings. It is Thomas Gordon Smith’s interpretation of the five Orders of architecture. Using Vitruvius as his model, Thomas shows how each of the five Classical Orders of architecture can be related to a five physical types of men and women.
It is well known that the conventional wisdom on building churches is in disrepute. Even the unwashed masses are revolting against the dictates and iconoclasm of the past fifty years…
Though broadcast live on Catholic television, the March 2010 consecration of the Chapel of Saints Peter and Paul at the Priestly Fraternity of St. Peter’s Our Lady of Guadalupe Seminary in Denton, NE passed rather quietly in the architectural and ecclesiastical news.
It is a perilous thing to ask the saints for design advice. The apostle Thomas earned his patronage of the architectural profession by giving away most of his construction budget to the poor and was nearly martyred for his trouble…
In some modern churches, not only do the faithful struggle to find the physical entrance, but seemingly even Jesus Christ struggles to find a means of entering…
This article, by art historian Heidemarie Seblatnig of Vienna, is a response to quotations from Ottokar Uhl’s original essay “Church Building as Process” from 1969, in the form of a debate:
The holy building is a sign that leads us to the Master of the creation, the Holy One, who came and dwelt among us to lead us to the Kingdom, the true promised land in heaven…
In November of 2008 I went up into the mountains of Peru for a month. There I saw over fifteen towns and villages, traveling by a combination of train, bus, minivan, station wagon, motorcycle, and my own two feet. Much of my transportation was older than I am, and had a disturbing tendency to stall. Yet even as I watched the miles go by, it seemed as if time as well were slipping by. In those areas of desperate poverty, I saw houses built from adobe mud without windows or doors, streets with no paving, and people pulling plows in fields. Men with typewriters set up business in the streets to produce letters, and knife sharpeners wandered with their wheels on their backs. At the center of almost every village, and often enough the village life, was a Catholic church, usually from the colonial period, with its original altarpieces, pulpits, and decorations. As the weeks went by, I noticed extraordinary similarities between them on several levels. While at first glance, they seemed similar to Spanish churches, I quickly saw I was wrong, and that these were Andean churches: particular products of convulsive shifts in Christianity, architecture, global balances of power, and Andean building traditions and religious customs.
The theological work of twentieth-century theologian Hans Urs von Balthasar has only recently begun to take its proper place in Catholic theology. In his lifetime he certainly took a back seat to contemporaries such as Karl Rahner, Yves Congar, and those men who were known as the theological architects of Vatican II. Balthasar never attended Vatican II, unlike so many of his fellow theologians and friends. This absence, combined with the difficulty inherent in classifying such a diverse corpus as his, has slowed his acceptance as a theological authority in the Church. But for the past thirty years—since the election of John Paul II to the Holy See—Balthasar’s star has risen as one of the great theologians after Trent, a status that the election of Balthasar’s close personal friend and theological sympathizer Joseph Ratzinger to the Chair of Saint Peter seemingly stamped with an imprimatur of the highest rank. At Balthasar’s funeral, Henri Cardinal de Lubac described him as “probably the most cultured man in the Western world.” Indeed, when one looks at the cultural topics that Balthasar treated, Cardinal de Lubac’s statement becomes hard to refute: Balthasar wrote his doctoral dissertation on German literature; his first major work was on music; he was one of the foremost patristic scholars of his time; and, thanks to his father’s practice of church architecture in Switzerland, he loved the visual arts and architecture.
The celebration of Christmas in Rome has its own unique flavor, combining sumptuous liturgical celebrations and festive religious and cultural traditions. One of the most renowned traditions during this joyful time is the construction of the presepio. The Italian word “presepio” comes from the Latin “praesaepe,” a combination of “prae” (in front of) and “saepire” (to enclose), which is rendered in English as “manger,” or “stall.” The Christmas ritual of constructing a presepio is a tradition that has been passed down for generations, possessing an important place in symbolic Christmas representation and devotional practice. At Christmastime these displays attract visitors to the city of Rome from all over the world. They are usually artistic masterpieces, spectacular, dramatic, and adorned with delightful figurines and stunning landscapes.
Iconography proclaims the Christian faith in color and form. It is visual theology capable of moving people at their very core. Icons give pleasure and deep satisfaction, but by their very nature, they have been designed to mediate the presence of God and to call the Church to worship.
The golden glow of late-day sunlight bathes the hand-carved stars on the ruddy brownstone ashlar of Saint John the Baptist Cathedral in Charleston, SC. The astral allusions merge with the robust pinnacles lining the sides of this fine cathedral, designed by the prolific nineteenth-century church architect Patrick Keely. As the pinnacles and buttresses march down the side of the church, we come to Broad Street, where there is space enough to stand back and view the tower of the church, which climbs to a great height—over eighty feet—and yet still longs to regain much more height.
When I give presentations in parishes or teach in the classroom, I am often asked many intelligent questions by students, building committee members, architects, pastors, and parishioners. These questions have given me great insight into the needs and desires of the People of God. The questions that follow are among those most frequently asked, and shorter summary answers are provided here for the reader’s convenience.
In recent years, historical research has paid considerable attention to the relationship between liturgy and architecture. Much of this scholarship has focussed on Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, but there is also growing interest in the periods of the Renaissance and of the Catholic Reform both before and after the Council of Trent (1545-1563), as is evident from the proceedings of a conference held at the Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florence in 2003. The editor of the volume, Jörg Stabenow, identifies two main developments that transformed the typical church interior in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. First, elements that divided the building into different sections were removed in order to create a unified space. By contrast, medieval churches were structured by a complex system of partitions, especially the rood screen separating the nave from the choir. Secondly, the tabernacle placed in a central position on the high altar was adopted as the common form of Eucharistic reservation and became the focal point of Baroque church architecture.
Over the past two centuries, Pittsburgh’s beautiful churches have made significant contributions to the city’s architectural character and quality of life. Great neighborhoods across the country, as in Pittsburgh, grew up around active churches. However, over the past few decades, many of our nation’s once-thriving churches have declined or even been shuttered. While the question of church health is undoubtedly complicated, the story of two Pittsburgh churches may provide some clues as to the connection between neighborhood context and congregation vitality.
If you are looking for someone to preserve and protect Crown Jewels, a visit and conversation with Monsignor Anthony M. Tocco may resolve any concerns as to how it may be done. As he led a 2001 project to restore this chapel “to its original glory,” as it is titled in the short history of the event, the emphasis was to prepare a defense against the ravages of time. Not only has that aging been addressed, but even more has been accomplished. In what the American Institute of Architects in 1937 called “one of the hundred representative and distinguished buildings in the United States,” this chapel stands as an example that the former can be retained when the new is built. Here is found a visible testimony to the symbols and the Catholic identity held dear by parishioners in an over 75 year history.